


Resurfacing

by patternofdefiance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the Return, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Slash, post-reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:50:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/pseuds/patternofdefiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s in the way Sherlock prowls the flat after they both return – John from just a few miles of London pavement away, and Sherlock from God knows how many thousands of miles and lies away. And two years.</p><p>They both come back from two years away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resurfacing

It’s in the way Sherlock prowls the flat after they both return – John from just a few miles of London pavement away, and Sherlock from God knows how many thousands of miles and lies away. And two years.

They both come back from two years away.

And it shouldn’t be a surprise that it takes time to come back from that. Like deep sea divers, slowly rising to a surface from separate depths, breathing in 221B, letting go of other places.

Breathing old routines, and relinquishing the new.

Inhaling each other, inhaling together, and exhaling the distance between.

It’s in the way Sherlock prowls the flat almost two months after the return. Neither of them has surfaced yet, but there’s light above and dark below, and they both know which way to go. Even if everything’s a blur. Even if everyone’s a blur.

Nobody seems to understand, least of all the two of them. Because John _isn’t_ and Sherlock _doesn’t_.

But breathing is involuntary, breathing is reflexive, breathing is necessary, and it’s easy to breathe in 221B. It’s easy to breathe together.

Sherlock can forget he’s doing it when he plays the violin (he starts up again three days after coming back) or when he’s poring through old case notes and experiment write-ups, things he deleted or let rust while he didn’t need them. He can relax and just let his lungs expand and contract, feel London and 221B and _together_ filling his chest.

John can look the other way when he’s making tea, the ritual complete now that he needs to make a second cup, he can let go and stop being careful not to breathe too deeply when listening to Sherlock play, when walking beside Sherlock on damp tarmac, their joint exhalations crowding white into the air between them.

It’s in the way John doesn’t prowl the flat – he simply settles into that old chair, his feet bare, and it’s like he never left. But Sherlock did. And so did John.

Sherlock roams the flat, touching corners, looking through doorways and windows. The first time an experiment turns volatile, and a stinking cloud swamps 221B, John (after reaction, response, and reconciliation) jokes, “It’s like you’re marking your territory.”

Sherlock stiffens at that, ridiculous in oversized, arm-long yellow rubber gloves, scrubbing the table, goggles pressing lines into his cheekbones and forehead. John, even more silly in his own gloves and goggles, mopping the ceiling, looks round, nods at the affronted look on Sherlock’s face, and laughs.

Suddenly, they are both laughing.

Great big bubbles of laughter escape them, dance upwards and away, leading them towards the growing light of _home_ and _back_ and _never leaving again_.

It’s in the way Sherlock prowls the flat, picking up random objects and placing them just so. John watches it all with a bemused smile. John has experience with decompression. John knows how it goes, knows not to fight it, knows that the darkness and the tightness never truly leave, but are tempered by other things. Life, light, togetherness.

Sherlock has never really allowed himself those things.

Watching him, John realizes he is leaving two darknesses, two depths. He watches him prowl and pick up and place and poise and position. He watches him mark the flat indelibly _his._ (Indelibly _theirs_ , he realizes later.)

 

It’s in the way Sherlock savages the crime scene, ripping open it’s mysteries, scratching his signature into every personal insult, every intimate attack on Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade.

“Honestly,” John mutters before grabbing Sherlock by the arm and marching the shocked man away from another scene he's caused, around a corner. “It’s like you’ve gone wild – regressed while you were away.” He doesn’t say ‘alone.’

He means ‘alone.’

Sherlock is staring dumbstruck at where John is gripping his arm. Part of it is the affront, the insult to dignity of being hoisted up and away like a misbehaving toddler. Part of it is that this is the first time anyone has touched him since the return. Mrs. Hudson had hugged him, then slapped him.

John had punched him.

Now _this_.

John is still talking – “it’s like dealing with a stray, I swear. Am I going to have to gentle you all over again?” His voice is softer now, and he’s smiling a little, not with his mouth, but with his eyes.

 _He’s happy,_ Sherlock realizes. _Happy despite me. Happy because of me? Unexpected._

Sherlock looks away from the teasing question John has posed, then says, “Probably.” An apology. A promise. A request.

John’s eyebrows go up, but he softens his grip on Sherlock’s arm, squeezes, then lets him go. They return to the crime scene, and Sherlock works in silence while John wards off questions and exasperated gestures with subtle head shakes and glares.

 

It’s in the way Sherlock sprawls all over the couch, taking up every available space with his thinking and his sulks. It’s in the way John lets him.

 

It’s in the way John panics after the third day (although, if he’s honest, he started losing it after the second day, just not so _overtly_ ) that Sherlock doesn’t come home.

John has to call Lestrade and tell him to call off the search at 3 in the morning when Sherlock comes home, looking thin and pale and out of place.

John shouts and shouts and shouts and doesn’t notice that he’s clinging to Sherlock, or that Sherlock is letting him, is actually hanging on tight right back.

John finally comes to his senses and realizes they are collapsed against the entry wall, bums to the floor, backs to the wall, arms about one another, breathing hard. Sherlock’s eyes are pinched shut. The panic inside John is unwinding, floating up, expanding, losing intensity, escaping. He knows the memory of it, the knowledge of it, will stay.

“You can’t do that again,” he says softly. He wonders what makes him think he can tell Sherlock what to do.

“I went for a walk. To clear my head.” Sherlock is sullen. “It took longer than anticipated.”

“You haven’t eaten have you.”

Sherlock shakes his head, great flops of curls baffling against John’s face, making him blink.

“Let’s feed you then.” He hoists both of them up. He pauses as something occurs to him, then smiles. “I should put a return label on you.”

Sherlock stares at him, uncomprehending for a moment, then his face crinkles into a smile.

John lets the panic fade away even more with a giggle, and they say together;

“If found, please return to 221B –”

“If found, please return to John Wats–”

They stop, startled. John is staring at Sherlock and Sherlock is staring at anything but John. They are still clasping hands from when John lifted them both off the ground. John can feel Sherlock go rigid, inch by inch as the moments stretch, even though his face remains blank. He can feel it the moment Sherlock starts to pull away again.

John has every intention of letting him - he is, at some level, already making peace with the fact that Sherlock will run away again, that he’ll see less and less of the man, and even if he stays and John sees him every day, he will see less and less of the man.

Instead, John tightens his grip and pulls Sherlock roughly into an embrace again, pushing Sherlock against the wall, tightening until Sherlock crumbles, softens, leans into the touch. The way his head is bowed, Sherlock’s nose is right behind John’s right ear, and each tiny, shallow breath exhales a little bit of panic.

Those little bits of panic tickle, and John squirms until they are closer, and Sherlock’s little breaths ghost down his spine instead.

They stand there, for long measures of minutes, breathing each other. The hair at John’s nape, and the skin of the hollow at Sherlock’s throat. Their arms constrict each other’s ribcages, restricting their breathing, but neither one of them is going to be the first to loosen that grip.

“Don’t do that again.” John says finally, mumbling it into Sherlock’s chest. “Please,” he adds this time.

Sherlock nods against him, eyes closed, drinking in this new togetherness.

It’s in the way they loosen their arms at the same time, just enough to look at each other, and when they seek each other’s eyes, it’s there, too.

John seems bashful. “I’m not – I’ve never – I’m not sure how to go about this,” he admits. He licks his lower lip.

Sherlock is watching him intently, shadows and light carving his face into something wild and unfathomable. It’s the question in his eyes, though, that brings the statue to life, brings him down and lifts him up to _human._

“I must confess to the same lack of…practical experience.”

It’s in the way John rolls his eyes at that phrasing.

Nevertheless, he leans forward, and after a moment’s thought, presses his lips against Sherlock’s collar bone. Sherlock breathes in sharply, and stiffens, but lets John press another kiss to his skin, his neck this time, close to the pulse point. Sherlock tips his head back against the wall, eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. A hand twines into the locks at the base of his neck, and as lips work along his jawline, tilts his head forward and down, and now –

Now John is placing his lips softly, slowly, against his own, and he recognizes the space John is giving him, the time he’s allowing for Sherlock to pull away, to change his mind, to say no. He recognizes the space John is giving himself, too, and holds where he is, his lips slightly parted but unmoving.

Sherlock opens his eyes to check – and yes, John has his closed, brow furrowed. John pulls back, opens his eyes, and looks at Sherlock. “Alright?”

“Yes.” Sherlock cannot deny the beating of his heart and the deep breaths he’s finding more and more necessary, but perhaps those same symptoms in John mean something else. They could be fear, panic, disgust, the sheer effort of doing this with Sherlock. Sherlock hates himself for it, but he cannot help but ask, “You?” which gives John an opening to say no, to change his mind, to pull away.

The tightening of the hand at the nape of his neck is all the warning he gets, and then John’s lips are on his, and there’s nothing tentative or careful or polite about them. He pushes right up against Sherlock and kisses him, their bodies flush from knees to lips, and Sherlock sinks against the wall, overwhelmed, drowning in this, needing air and hating air, needing to breathe and hating it, and wanting to inhale only John, only John, John, _John_ –

It’s in the way they make it upstairs, and it’s in the way they don’t make it past the couch. It’s in their hands and their urgent touches, in their fumbling and their elegance. It’s in those awkward first touches, growing more and more sure.

It’s in how quickly Sherlock comes undone, body arching, shaking, spilling in John’s arms and hands, muscles twitching and aching at this newness.

It’s in John’s voice as he chants, “Please, please, _please,_ ” as Sherlock touches and strokes and imitates what John did to him, and Sherlock knows it means ‘please touch me’ and also, ‘please let this work,’ because Sherlock knows love and lust are separate things, but apparently not for John.

Perhaps not for Sherlock either.

It’s in the way John’s eyes snap open in shock and painful joy and confusion when he comes, gasping Sherlock’s name, his pupils blown wide, his voice rough and guttural, his back arching, and then Sherlock is on top of him, splayed out across his slick skin, and he’s looking for John’s lips and kisses them when he finds them, kisses them and kisses them, and is clumsy and uncertain and very un-Sherlock, but kisses them nonetheless.

He’s desperate that this not be over. Maybe it will have been too much for John in a different and less enjoyable way than it was too much for Sherlock. Because it was too much, and it is still too much, and it is in no way enough.

“Shh, shh,” John makes calming noises in between the assault of kisses, and Sherlock makes an unhappy noise, because he doesn’t want to be calmed down, he doesn’t want John to calm down and come to his senses about this and make that serious, sensible face at him. “Sherlock,” he says and extracts himself from Sherlock’s arms, which is intolerable.

To Sherlock’s confusion, as soon as he calms and stops trying to get another kiss in, John pulls him in and kisses the air right out of his lungs, leaves him gasping and limp, then says, “We need to clean up.”

“Oh.”

“And then we can go to sleep. It’s past four.”

“Oh.”

“In the same bed, you idiot.”

“ _Oh_.”

It’s in the way Sherlock launches into the bathroom and John laughs, and also in the way Sherlock doesn’t say “I don’t need to sleep,” and in the way John doesn’t expect him to.

Sherlock does fold around John though, and holds him tightly when John needs it later, because this is a Big Step and he took it without really thinking it through, and _now_ what does he make of himself, and Sherlock just holds him and says his name sporadically.

 _John_. Reminding him.

 _John_. His John.

 _John_.

John settles down and pets Sherlock, returns the favor of touch and acceptance, and it turns out that certain insomniac detectives can actually sleep quite deeply after an orgasm.

 

It’s in the way, several days later, when John is up before Sherlock (which shows something of what they did the night before), and he sits down beside Sherlock to wake him up.

“John.” Sherlock opens his eyes, instantly awake, aware, present. His eyes focus on John and he smiles. With each new day, that smile is more and more easily startled from hiding. Every time John sees it, he feels he’s winning.

“Here,” John says without prelude, because prelude bores Sherlock, gives him a chance to predict outcome. What do you get the man that can deduce anything and everything?

A surprise.

Sherlock’s brow furrows for a moment as John dumps something in his sleep-weak hand. Confusion for a moment, then clarity. “Your dogtags.”

John nods.

“Why?” Sherlock turns them over and over in his hands, reading the numbers and the letters.

John leans down and kisses the downturn of that confused mouth. “If found, please return to –”

Sherlock’s eyebrows pop up even as his mouth opens in surprise, and John strategically chooses that moment to invade.

They stay like that, breathing each other’s air, afloat in each other’s breath and closeness, and there is something inside each of them, rising, expanding, rushing along with them, _rushing them along_ towards a not so distant and now oddly different light.

It’s in the way that difference doesn’t matter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> (And thank you for all the feedback!)


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